(1) A balloon, losing its high, bobbed on the road at eye level. I saved it from an on coming car and led it down the street. It happily trailed behind me like a bulbous, flying, white puppy. At the bus stop a young boy next to me gave it a gentle push. I offered it to him, — wide eyed and silent he accepted it. A few moments later I heard him whisper to his mother about his new present. Or at least I think that’s what he was talking about, not understand Spanish and all. His mother, again I guessed, asked if he had said thank you. He tapped me on the shoulder, to which I turned, and accepted his “Gracias” with “De Nada” (no problem).
(2) Today at the L’Oceanografic (part of the spectacular Ciutat De Les Arts I De Les Ciencies – some of the most beautiful buildings I have ever seen, have a look here), while I ogled at fishes and other aquatic life in giant aquariums I realised — babies, animals and nature are totally the best ever.
(3) A lone person isn’t good enough to eat in a restaurant. They make other diners feel uncomfortable and are therefore Bad for Business. So I was relegated to PANS (a Spanish chain selling sandwiches) and even there the staff packed up around me – taking away all the other tables and chairs until it was just me, on the street, at a sole table and chair. I dare anyone to try and look cool while they eat dinner alone.
(4) Valencia has a very excellent modern art museum called IVAM. I have become a fan of visiting modern art museums (the Matisse, Chagall and Modern Art Museum in Nice are also excellent.) They are my brain-food and provide me insight into how contemporary artists view themselves, their city and the world. They provide me with thoughts and feelings that are of deeper intensity and greater complexity than when I look upon Classical Art.
(5) The Interpreter was very good. Penn and Kidman really show what they’re made of. On the bus today the television had a picture of Nicole captioned with words that looked like “temporary” and “retire” – but in Spanish so I’m not sure. Perhaps Nicole will join my mother and I in CatLadyville earlier than I had expected.
(6) Did I tell you that in Florence I had my, no joke, 4th random run in with a person I know from Sydney?
Relief has been a hollow word for me until this day!
Don’t tell my parents, but Welcome to the Worst Day Ever…
It is 5.30am in Nice, Southern France. I am tired, and anxious as I put my card in the ATM machine. While I had transferred money into my account on Friday, I had a sick feeling that maybe it wouldn’t have reached it yet. “Insufficient Funds” confirmed this. I return to the hostel, handing over every single euro I had on me (11.50), apologising, and telling them they should be able to charge the rest to my card later that afternoon. It was total bad form and I knew it, but I had a train to catch so there was little I could do.
It wasn’t until I was well on the train to Avignon that it occurred to me that handing over all my money may not have been the wisest move. What if I arrived in the city to find that even then, at 10am when surely the French banks would now have transferred my money, the stomach sinking words would flash on the screen again?
In the middle of being occupied by such considerations, the train staff called out that our train tickets were about to be checked. I reacted with near bitchy irritation when the train dude shook his head as he looked at my Eurail pass and told me to step aside. They accused me of having altered the dates (against the rules as it means you get an extra day of travel) and didn’t accept my indignant protestations that a change of mind meant I had no choice and I hadn’t used that day of travel. Not only did they “steal” another day of travel from my pass but fined me 200 Aus dollars.
Events like this usually upset me, so I was sort of surprised when I didn’t seem to feel upset, just pissed of, dishing out lots of attitude to the poor guys just doing their jobs (and who really could have been a lot shirtier with me). A nice American woman came up to me later asking what had happened and regaled similar tales of ludicrous unforeseen travel expenses one can only attribute to poor luck… which made me feel better, as no doubt was her intention.
But perhaps it was all a sort of survival mechanism, because by the time I was in Avignon I was feeling fairly unsettled, particularly when the ATMs there again flashed up with “insufficient funds”. ATM after ATM angrily shot me with their cold declaration, and then mockingly followed with the message “don’t forget to take your card!” — WELL WHAT GOOD IS IT TO ME AT THE MOMENT MOTHERFUCKER?!
By that time the banks would have closed in Australia so I couldn’t call home and get mum to put some mulah into my account. So I was literally stranded with no money and no way of getting any. Do you realise what a frightening reality this is? No money to put my back breaking bags in the station storage. No money to book a hostel for the evening. No money for busses or taxis. No money for food. I tried to calm down by reminding myself that by 1am (9am Tuesday in Australia) the bank at home would have transferred the money – so it was just a matter of seeing it out til then. But still I felt incredibly vulnerable and highly emotional. (Now have a tiny inkling of what it’s like to be povo – except for them this is a daily, regular reality with no forseeable end to the misery. To live day to day for pure survival… it’s awful. Terribly stressful.)
How to get some money…
Begging?
Busking?
Selling something?
I headed to the tourist information in the hope there might be some second hand bookstores. All I had was a ratty version of Anna Karenina and a 2004 Let’s Go guidebook of Western Europe which someone had left for the taking at my last hostel. I calculated their total worth to be no more than 5 euros, but that would do me to buy some food and water. As luck would have it there were a couple in the city, and the first one I headed to was open…
But not wanting my books. Nevertheless the French guy who owned the place was very kind and helpful, not only letting me know of another second hand book store in the city, but showing it to me on the map (which I had picked up at the tourist office and haphazardly scrunched to stuff into my bag pocket, he now opened it up and carefully, slowly smoothed it out) and calling the store on the phone to see if they were open. Nobody picked up and as he informed me of this in French, I blubbered in English explaining why I was selling the books – and I felt the tears trembling under my words, they were coming, there wasn’t any stopping them…
I excused myself and scurried out of there as quick as I can. But only with the intention of getting around the corner, out of view, where I threw my bags onto the path and sat on the curb to have a damn big bawl. And bawl I did. I didn’t care that there was people about and didn’t want anyone to ask if I was OK or to offer to help, I just wanted to cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. Bwa-boo-hoo-snort-BWAAA-WAwaah-snort sort of crying. Crying like it was a physical exorcism of all that awful desperation and lameness which I felt framed in.
This all too embarrassing public display of my lack of control was interrupted by the guy from the bookstore who ushered me back into his store and onto a chair which I quickly took. To cry some more. While crying, shook my head when he suggested calling the police or back home, just told him I wanted to cry, and did and did. More more crying. Big, loud, vomitous, crying.
Eventually I calmed down, and after assuring him that I’d be fine, I just had to wait it out until my money arrived, he told me, with the utmost gentility and kindness that was comforting beyond words, he wanted to buy my book and offered 5 euros. So I’m sorry Tolstoy. I’ll never know what happened in the last chapter of Anna Karenina, but be glad to know that your novel bought me a bag of cookies, water and some small peace of mind.
Walking through Avignon, even through the hazy fog of my heightened emotion, I could appreciate its beauty, having left the bookstore to see the city for the afternoon before I caught my train to Barcelona later that day. (I have decided to buy the French guy a present which I will send to him – what does one buy for a French secondhand book store owner?) By the time I was on this train (leaving from Montpellier which is another fairly nice French city I had a quick look around) I had calmed considerably.
Everything would get better once I reached Barcelona, I told myself. In fact I was already on a Spanish train (the word Renfe never looked so good) so I was halfway there. I get weird like this sometimes, believing irrationally in luck and karma and vibes or whatnot. I was playing solitaire on my I-pod by the time we crossed the French border and my mobile beeped with the welcome text from the Spanish telephone networks. If I win this game, I said to myself, the Spanish train people won’t check the tickets so I won’t have to explain why there’s an angry little French message written on my Eurail pass that blacklists me as a date-changer.
I won the game, and three hours later happily reached the Barcelona main station without my ticket checked.
The station greeted me with an ATM which I, without much expectation, thought I’d try, despite the fact that it was a few hours short of 1am. Imagine my shock and joy when the machine spat out sweet blessed notes to me. Bless Spain I cried! Bless Barcelona! I had cash again and could pay for a bed to sleep in! I could have some proper dinner! I felt safe and secure – confident to stride the streets again!!!
Emerging out of the station to Las Ramblas, for me the heart of the city, the air was a mixture of a storm that had just passed and the dinners being feasted upon by all the restaurant goers lining the street. It didn’t matter that it was still raining lightly, and that it was a Monday, and 10pm at night – Barcelona was, as it always is, buzzing with people who each become infected by the vibrant, sexy, fantastically alive rhythm that this city dances to. Alongside Berlin, it has remained my favourite city and no place has challenged its playful, circus like feeling.
Arriving at my pensione the owner, Victor, opened the door and recognised me with a big smile. “Ohhh, Monica! I remember you!” When I told him my plans to stay in Barcelona for two weeks, hopefully find some flyering work, he offered the private double bedded room for 20 euros (rather than the usual 30 he charges), and which is less than what I’ve paid for a lot of shitty dorm room beds in other hostels. The neat tucked in bed, little red velvet chair and tiny wooden bedside tables was all mine, all to myself, my own place, for two weeks… the sight of it almost made me cry (and perhaps would have had I not emptied myself of tears earlier in the day.)
When I asked Victor if I should pay now, he waved it off and said “tomorrow” (he seems to be permanently heading out, and would always rather deal with such finicky details such as payment tomorrow) then tailed his goodnight with “consider this your home.”
All the bad of the day dissipated in a single, glowing, golden moment.
Now leave a joyous note for me in the comments of your own happy tales…
